Riven (The Arinthian Line Book 2) (58 page)

Bridget placed a hand on Haylee’s cheek, pushing aside a lock of muddy blonde hair. Haylee started awake, shriveling away from Bridget’s hand, moaning loudly. When her eyes opened though, there was shock and hope there.

Bridget only gave a loving smile and placed a finger to her lips.

“Damn her, always moanin’ about this an’ that—” said the guard outside. The tent flap wavered and the trio stiffened.

“Oh never mind her,” Ms. Jenkins interrupted, evidently staying the guards’ hand. “Let me shut her up this time, you’ve been out here all night.”

“That’s most kind o’ you, my dear.”

The tent flap opened and in walked the bulging figure of Ms. Jenkins, her eyes taking in the scene as if it was exactly how she had expected it—the trio huddling near Haylee like rabbits ready to bolt. She walked up to them and started talking in a loud, threatening voice, all the while searching for something within her robes.

“I do not want you making any more noises, girl, or we will send in the brute, is that understood?” Haylee took her cue and moaned a supplicating response. Meanwhile, Ms. Jenkins finally found what she was looking for—a large iron key, promptly handing it to Bridget.

Augum wondered how she got it.

“Good, now keep your mouth shut,” Ms. Jenkins concluded with a wink. She turned and walked right back out.

The trio exchanged surprised looks before Bridget readied to unlock the manacles, waiting for the conversation outside to start up again to cover up the noise.

“The prisoner needs to be fed,” Ms. Jenkins said to the guard. “Let me send for a girl. I can make sure she brings you something, too.”

“That would be fine, Ms. Jenkins, just fine.”

Bridget finished unlocking the manacles just as Ms. Jenkins walked away. The lack of outside conversation forced them to be still.

Haylee couldn’t stop shaking as she rubbed her wrists. Black circles ringed her eyes, cheeks red as if recently slapped. Suddenly she enveloped Bridget in a hug, shoulders quietly heaving. Bridget squeezed her and patted her on the back. Then she did the same to Augum, who whispered, “We’re getting you out of here,” into her ear.

Leera, who was edging away, was saved from a hug by a gaggle of footsteps outside. “What a treat,” the guard said. A moment later, the tent flap opened and in walked Ms. Jenkins, followed by Mya carrying a tray.

Augum immediately felt a familiar tingle in his chest and gulped. Mya nervously smiled at them—Ms. Jenkins must have told her about their presence.

He kept staring stupidly before Leera elbowed him. Mya bent down and put the tray aside. They were readying to huddle and conspire the next step when a familiar voice crowed outside.

“Guard, I can’t sleep, there’s too much excitement in the air,” Robin said. “I’m going in to talk to my
friend
, practice my skills.”

Augum realized Robin was intending to put Haylee to the question, maybe even torture her. Ms. Jenkins seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion, sprinting for the entrance just as the tent flap rose.

“Now that won’t be necessary—” Ms. Jenkins said, catching the flap just in time and stepping outside.

“Excuse me—?”

“The prisoner needs rest.”

“Do you know who I am, woman? I am the favored necrophyte, soon to be training
personally
under the tutelage of none other than the Lord of the Legion! As well, I am the Blade of Sorrows’ apprentice—Commander Tridian, to you—and that means that I am expected to put prisoners to the question in my spare time to advance my skills—”

“—that is all very well and good, young man, but this camp is responsible to Commander Canes. Further, I am the camp healer and I am afraid my authority in such matters is unquestionable.”

There was a spitting sound as Robin marched off.

“What a rude little brat,” the guard outside muttered.

“Never mind him, just enjoy the pastry.” Ms. Jenkins soon returned, wiping her cheek.

“Another close one,” Leera mouthed, reaching for a piece of bread. Bridget gave her a stern look though, staying Leera’s hand.

Augum tried to make eye contact with Mya, passing on how good it was to see her, but she was too busy smearing a clear balm on Haylee’s puffy face. Then he remembered what he had to ask. He tugged on Ms. Jenkins’ fur-trimmed robe and gestured the symbol for a triangle, then held up his hands as if to ask, “Where is it?”

Ms. Jenkins replied with a leaning hand, symbolizing the rock. She pointed to her palm, meaning the symbol had to be on its underside.

He gestured his thanks just as the side of the tent suddenly rose, revealing a malevolent pinched face.

“I knew it—!” Robin said gleefully. Before anyone could react, the canvas dropped. “Guards! They’re here, they’re here in the tent! Guards, come quick—!”

Ms. Jenkins’ arm immediately rippled to life with white rings climbing up just past her elbow. Augum, Bridget and Leera followed suit, each summoning their one and only ring, its light shining around their respective wrists. Haylee, too weak to stand on her own, hung on to Bridget with shaking hands, while Mya stood protectively in front of the pair.

The tent was quickly surrounded, the shadows of soldiers splaying on the canvas walls.

“Trapped—” Leera said.

A huge shadow loomed behind and over the tent, crisply defined by the rays of the morning sun. Long strips hung from two oversized appendages, stretched by the angled light.

The wraith hissed like a monstrous snake and the girls screamed.

Augum, forcing himself to do something—anything—snatched the Slow Time scroll from Bridget, opened it, and began reading aloud. He focused on the words, grateful they had practiced reading the spell, and began speaking them aloud.

Suddenly everything happened at once—Ms. Jenkins cast her own spell, Robin streamed in through the entrance with countless soldiers, and the wraith slammed its giant arms down on the back of the tent, collapsing it on top of them.

“Muerto tempus ideus deo didaeiee!” Augum shouted just as the canvas roof was about to hit him.

Everything slowed dramatically, including sound, which deepened and lengthened. Wood chips from splintered tent supports cartwheeled in slow motion. Dust glittered in bright morning light that streamed in through the rear of the tent. Robin’s scowling face froze, shouting something indiscernible at this tempo. Augum looked down in real speed and watched the scroll evaporate, misting into a smoky cloud.

He knew the spell’s duration. Under influenced time, he couldn’t spare a moment. There was only one thing he needed to do, the only thing that could possibly save them—he needed to get to Hangman’s Rock. Without another moment’s hesitation, he bolted for the canvas door, pushing by Robin, who seemed to weigh as much as a horse. Robin’s eyes tried to follow him, but they were far too slow.

He must appear a blur to them, Augum thought, crawling through a pair of Legion legs as if playing a game of Piggy Run. Everything seemed difficult to move—canvas felt like soft iron; his feet met the hardiest resistance from the smallest piece of snow; edges were unusually sharp and crystalline. Even passing through a cloud of dust was like swimming against a strong current of water.

He easily side-stepped a soldier drawing an enormous double-sided axe, dodged around two more soldiers running after the mob, and sprinted straight for the underside of Hangman’s Rock, the watchtower sitting on top like an oversized mantis on the back of a bull.

As he passed a cooking fire, he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful and otherworldly the flames appeared when slowed down. In fact, everything seemed strange, twinkling and glittering, vying for his attention.

In his blind rush to reach the Rock before the spell timed out, he made the mistake of thinking he could whip through a line of hanging linen, something that would have been completely normal in any other circumstance. Under the influence of Slow Time, however, the usually soft cloth felt like weighted leather hide, slapping him down to the muddy snow. The ground itself felt hard as steel, gouging into his back.

It cost him a moment to regain his composure, a moment he knew he couldn’t spare. Fumbling forward, soldiers slowly turning his way, he jumped between the wooden log scaffolding of the watchtower, bracing himself against the icy surface of Hangman’s Rock. There was a thin layer of frost along the entire underside. He thought it’d be nothing to pry the icy crust off with his fingers—until he actually tried, its hardness magnified by the spell.

He began stabbing at it with the only thing he could use—One Eye’s tooth amulet. It, too, proved nearly futile, the many particles of ice not even clearing aside fast enough for him to be able to see.

Just as quickly as it started, the sound and movement sped up, and sped up rapidly. Suddenly everything moved along at impossible speed and he felt so slow, even though he knew reality was as it was before. He paid no attention to what was happening around him, returning to stabbing at the icy underbelly. Relative to before, striking the ice now felt powerful, like slicing through butter with a hot knife. A giant sheet gave way, cracking up the middle and falling on him. Almost unconsciously, he summoned his hard lightning shield and the ice plunked off harmlessly.

He looked up to see the witch’s mark—a triangle carved into the rock, each point accented with a dot. Soldiers were streaming at him from all sides, almost at the scaffolding now.

In one fluid motion, he snatched a stone at his feet, lit up his palm, held up the tooth against the mark, and smashed it.

Hangman’s Rock rippled to life like the surface of water, swallowing the shattered remains of the dragon tooth. For a moment he was afraid it would pull him in. A shadowy, stooped figure emerged just on the other side of that watery wall, emanating a horrible sensation of malice.

Meanwhile, gauntleted hands reached in through the scaffolding.

Damn, what was the wording for the wish? Quick, think of something, anything! “Tell Anna Atticus Stone that they’re coming for her and that we’re at Hang—”

Suddenly he was tackled from the side, the impact slamming his head against a wooden beam. As he lay crumpled beneath a black-armored Legionnaire, he heard a hissing whisper in his mind. Even as the walls of consciousness closed in, he willed himself to remember the words.

“Your bidding I shall do. A price I shall exact.”

The Price

Augum was awoken suddenly by freezing water hurled into his face. He began shivering immediately.

“Wake up, you disloyal traitorous swine—” said a vaguely familiar voice.

He groaned, head pounding with such ferocity he dared not open his eyes. His arms, manacled above his head, throbbed. Every part of him felt drained, every muscle sore.

He heard the sound of a bucket being placed on the ground.

“Fetch the commander, the brat’s finally awake,” said the voice. Feet rushed and tent flaps parted.

He tried placing that voice, but with every beat of his heart, a fresh spasm of pain shot through his head, smashing concentration.

“Augum, are you all r—”

The sound of a slap and a quick yelp.

“Shut it, missy. The commander does the talking.”

Your bidding I shall do. A price I shall exact.
That’s what the crone said to him. And just as expected, she had drained his arcane stamina so much his head wanted to explode. But had Nana received his message? Would she evade his father’s trap? Above all, were his friends all right? How could things have gone so wrong?

It was that cursed Robin …

Augum sensed many people in the room, yet no one spoke. Manacles clanked. The pad of light feet mingled with the subtle crunch of hay as a person adjusted their weight from foot to foot. A particular tension was in the air, a tension he remembered experiencing once before …

Someone with heavy boots entered the tent. Augum steeled himself before attempting to open his eyes, yet just the slightest glimpse of light made him cry out.

“He cries like a baby torn from its mother’s grip.”

Augum felt a cold wave wash over him. He knew that voice all too well—would
never
forget that voice, forever imprinted in that iron room.

“Justinius, send word to my apprentice.”

“Yes, Commander.”

There was the squeak of leather as the Blade of Sorrows crouched before Augum, cloak chain jingling against his chest plate.

“You seem to be injured here.” The Blade of Sorrows squeezed Augum’s head. A white-hot pain forced him to scream in agony.

A girl cried out, only to be silenced by a slap.

Tridian let go and pain ebbed away. “Oh, but that was merely a whisper. You are being sensitive, my boy, the fun has not even begun. You know, I was a little disappointed to have caught you so quickly. It was all … too easy. I was really hoping to drag this out.”

Augum felt a strong kick to his gut. His eyes opened involuntarily and the white-hot pain returned. It was so intense he didn’t even have time to scream.

Sometime later, he was revived by another sudden splash of frigid water to his face. His whole body seemed to pulse in spasm after rolling spasm. His arms tingled numb above his head. There was the sound of whimpering nearby.

“How far the rat has fallen,” Robin said.

Augum, gasping from the cold shock, could visualize the bastard’s grin.

“Do not let them know your thoughts, Apprentice,” Tridian said in a bored voice.

“Yes, Commander.”

Augum knew what was coming—another questioning. What did they want this time?

Robin crouched before him. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

Augum ignored him.

“I said—”

“—never repeat yourself,” the Blade of Sorrows interrupted. “It makes you appear weak. Instead, make the subject regret his impudence.”

Augum heard Robin smile, an exhalation of breath as if he had discovered a new toy.

“Justinius, fill up the bucket.”

“As you wish, Honored Necrophyte.”.

Robin paced across from him. “Haylee, look at me. Did you enjoy our talk earlier?” He snorted a laugh. “I suppose there wasn’t much talking, was there? Did you miss me? Sure you did. I missed you too. But don’t worry, we’ll be spending a lot of time together. Just like the old days, eh, Hayles?